


take what you're given

by lastwingedthing



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Getting Together, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/pseuds/lastwingedthing
Summary: A lost sorceress and a ruling queen find common ground, common goals, and maybe something more.
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	take what you're given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).



The throne room of the great pyramid of Meereen was always stippled with shadow, shafts of pale light almost thick enough to touch glinting off metal spears and shimmering on the cooling pools of water on either side of Daenerys’s throne. On audience days, bored or disgusted with the petty concerns of merchants and minor nobles, it was too easy to become distracted by the patterns. Often Daenerys lost herself staring at the lights and the shadows, mind blank and empty.

Viserys taught her to hide from the world and from himself, that way. Long ago.

But always something would draw her back to herself, shaming her for her lack of care – a starving widow seeking her aid, a former slave with a story that broke Daenerys’s heart to hear, an orphan child lost here without kin or friends. Even Missandei, recalling her to duty with a subtle touch to her shoulder in the gentlest of rebukes.

Daenerys was Queen here. She had a duty.

Nevertheless days blurred into each other, and she was half-dreaming again in the golden late afternoon light when the crippled beggar woman hobbled up the steps of her audience room towards her.

The woman’s back was twisted, and she could not walk straight – she stumbled, as she tried to prostrate herself in the manner expected of the slaves of Meereen. Before she knew what she was doing, Daenerys leapt from her throne and down the stairs to catch the woman’s shoulder as she fell, heedless of the woman’s coarse and filthy cloak.

“You need not kneel to me, lady,” Daenerys told her, gently. “I am not of the Masters.”

The woman’s cloak slipped back as she turned her head to face Daenerys, who flinched a moment in surprise. Dark as she was, the woman’s eyes were the deep Valyrian violet of her own ancestors.

“And yet you’re sitting on a throne in their pyramid.” The woman’s voice was soft, lilting with an accent Daenerys did not know.

“Yes,” Daenerys replied steadily, after a pause that lasted a heartbeat too long. “If I am to keep the Masters from reclaiming their power and their slaves, I must take their place myself. I would not see this city torn apart as was Yunkai, and Astapor.”

The woman smiled. Her face was crippled too – jaw misaligned, all the planes of her face askew – yet she was beautiful too, all soft skin and luminous eyes –

Daenerys had been staring at her too long.

“Did you come to beg a boon from me,” she asked the strange woman, gently.

The woman’s smile faded.

“No,” she said, as gentle as Daenerys. “I came to give you a gift.”

Drezan zo Rhazdar, one of the Meereenese nobles leaning casually at the back of the room, scoffed aloud. Daenerys glanced over at him quickly, furious, but if he read the message in her eyes he did not show it.

“I am honoured,” Daenerys said, loud and clear so that all the room could hear her. She would scorn none who was of her people, no matter how humble she appeared.

The strange woman smiled again, secretive. “You should be.”

Then she straightened, and stood. Straightened completely – somehow even to the twisting of her back and jaw – suddenly she was standing tall and upright, balanced on her feet like a pit fighter or a dancer. The dirty cloak fell away, to reveal a fine gown embroidered in black and silver.

“My name,” she said clearly, “is Yennefer of Vengerberg. I am a sorceress trained by the witches of Aretuza, and I served the kings of Aedirn for thirty years before I walked away from their stupid little games. I am a long way from my home, and I came to this land by accident, I thought – but perhaps it was fate, that brought me here before a Breaker of Chains. I never thought to bend my head to a king again, but I will serve you. If you want me.”

For a long moment Daenerys could do nothing more than stare. She had felt this woman’s shoulder beneath her hands, seen her face from inches away. The crippling that twisted her had been no trick.

But perhaps an illusion – or was the face she wore now the false image?

Did it matter, either way?

The woman smiled again, and Daenerys recognised the emotion in it now. Pride. This woman was as proud as Daenerys herself. Knew herself, deeply.

The woman – Yennefer – made a gesture, closing her eyes for a moment, and reached out with one hand. There was a brazier standing at the wall beside her. As if in a dream Daenerys saw its flame rise out of it and fly to the sorceress’s hand.

She held fire in her hands.

Daenerys stared at her, lips faintly parted, as their eyes locked. _I thought I was the only one who could do that_.

Then the sorceress grinned and tossed the ball of flame, casually, at the man who had laughed at her before. 

Drezan screamed as the fire landed on the edge of his robes and caught there. The fine silk went up like it was soaked in oil. But then Grey Worm leapt from his post at the foot of the dais and caught him round the shoulders, flinging him into the shallow pool beside them to quench the flames.

Remorseful, Daenerys almost leapt the three strides to the pool. “Are you hurt? Either of you?”

Drezan cringed and sobbed, but apart from the charred ruin of his robe, he seemed very little hurt, only a little pinkness on his left side where the flames had started – his robes had burned too fast to do him real harm.

Grey Worm, too – Daenerys took his hands in her own to inspect them, but there was no sign of any marks.

“You should be more careful,” Daenerys told the sorceress, sternly. “Fire is no game.”

She bowed her head, but Daenerys could see it in her eyes – she was not really repentant. “I will remember that.”

“Is that all you can do for me? Tricks, and silly games?”

The woman raised her head again. She did nothing that Daenerys could see, but suddenly there were three of her, standing side by side – six of her – a dozen or more, all mimicking each other, but not exactly. One raised her hand – one had a spear in it – one drew a dagger from the sleeve of her gown – then there was only one Yennefer again, laughing.

“These tricks of mine have their uses, in war,” she said lightly. “But I do not think you need my help in battle. Not with the children I have seen flying over this city.”

Slowly, Daenerys shook her head.

“But I know more than tricks,” Yennefer continued. “I was taught to serve kings – to help them _rule_. To hear the whispers in the land that show where things go awry, and mend them. I have known many kings. Some would not have been kings long, without me.”

Daenerys tried to quench the hope leaping in her chest. _I need that_. But could she trust this woman?

“Why me? Why me, of all the kings you’ve known?”

Yennefer looked down for a moment, eyes hooded, and then met Daenerys’s eyes again with a flash like fire.

“You are the Breaker of Chains. And before I was a sorceress, before I found my power, I was a crippled girl whose father sold her away for four marks. Less than the price of a pig. I was worth that much to him.”

Something caught in Daenerys’s throat. “My brother sold me for an army, ten thousand of the fiercest warriors this land has ever known. It was not enough – nothing would be enough. We ought to be beyond price, all of us. But we are not.”

“Not yet,” Yennefer said very softly, but her words lingered in the still warm air.

Heart pounding, Daenerys turned to look back at the advisors behind her. Jorah looked stern and unimpressed, shaking his head almost imperceptibly; Ser Barristan looked uncertain, a waiting look on his face – he would not speak until he had learned more.

But Missandei – Missandei looked wondering, and hopeful, as hopeful as Daenerys felt inside. As Daenerys met her eyes, she gave the tiniest nod, barely perceptible even to Daenerys, who knew her well.

Daenerys turned back to the stranger. Met her eyes again, purple and wide – a sign, perhaps. Something was singing in Daenerys’s heart, like a string plucked.

 _I have taken risks before_ , Daenerys thought. _I have followed my heart and my dreams over my reason, and look what it has brought me._

Queenly, she inclined her head.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg, I would be honoured to accept your service.”

Yennefer’s advice was always good, even from the beginning – but at first the real challenge was not the advice itself, but the process of finding Yennefer to seek it. The sorceress was always off somewhere in the city asking children who had been slaves to teach her their working songs, or in the Unsullied barracks learning to wield the shield and long spear, or deep in the bowels of the great pyramid reading faded records of slave sales from half a century ago.

At first Daenerys bore it with grace, but after a particular morning spent wandering the maze of narrow slum streets to the west of the great pyramid for hours, only to find Yennefer sitting on the ground with an old blind woman and her granddaughter, playing with the granddaughter’s kittens – Daenerys finally lost her temper. She managed to restrain herself until they were halfway up one of the narrow, twisting internal stairs, but once she was certain there was no one to hear but Grey Worm, Daenerys couldn’t help but let an angry snarl enter her voice.

“Where were you? You have _duties_ , Yennefer. How are you to be my advisor if you are always hidden away in the city slums when I need you?”

For a long moment Yennefer said nothing; there was only the light rhythm of their sandaled feet on the stone steps.

“Well?” Daenerys snapped.

Yennefer smiled with a wry twist of her mouth. “Would you like me to advise you, my queen? Or would you like me to advise you _well_? I am useless unless I understand this city.”

Daenerys bit her lip. “You told me you had advised many rulers, you told me that you knew what you were doing!”

“Yes,” Yennefer said slowly. “But all of that was far away. You know I am a stranger here. Every city, every kingdom is different from any other – I cannot just assume that what I learned in other places is true here, without taking the time to investigate for myself.”

Daenerys frowned. It made sense – Daenerys’s anger still prickled in her chest – but it made sense. She held her tongue, waiting to let Yennefer finish speaking.

“But I suppose I understand why you are angry. If you need me, if you ever truly need me, I can give you a way to speak to me regardless of how far apart we are.”

Daenerys stopped in her tracks and turned to face Yennefer, throwing out a hand against Yennefer’s chest to hold her. Through the thin fabric of Yennefer’s dress, Daenerys could feel her heart beating against her hand.

“You could do this?”

“I could, my queen.” Yennefer’s eyes were dark and shadowed. “It comes at a price. The magic I spend to let you do this cannot be used for anything else.”

Daenerys went to speak and then stopped. She’d already seen how useful Yennefer’s magic could be – clearing poison from a tainted well, enriching the soil in the tiny city gardens to help them produce more to feed the city. Helping a child whose leg had been crushed by a nobleman’s carriage – Yennefer couldn’t heal the damage completely, but she’d given the girl back some of her mobility and taken away the near-constant pain.

“What were you doing in the city, when I found you?” Daenerys asked abruptly.

Yennefer smiled again, a small sly half-twist of her mouth. “I was visiting old Merra, a woman who was maid to Kezan zo Pahl for sixty years until her mistress died of a stroke three moons before your siege. Her masters freed her so they would no longer have the trouble of feeding her – if you had not come when you did, she likely would have starved in the streets. Now her son is free and working as a city guard, and makes enough coin to feed his family. She has time to sit in the sun with her granddaughter telling stories to strangers. But she is only an old slave woman, of course – any of your Meereenese lords would tell you as much.”

Daenerys winced. The House of Pahl was one of the richest in Meereen, and like most of the Great Masters, its people did not love Daenerys. And they had the money, still, to cause a great deal of trouble for her…

“I see.” Daenerys tilted her head upwards, anger fading. But its traces still fizzed in her belly. “Then I thank you for your efforts.”

Yennefer’s smile widened, luminous. “What did you need from me, my queen?”

Daenerys swallowed, the anger turning to a hard lump of grief in her throat. Behind them, she heard a faint creaking as Grey Worm shifted restlessly in his leather armour; he would have had her act without taking the time to hear Yennefer’s advice. But Daenerys had to be certain…

“Jorah Mormont has betrayed me,” Daenerys said, keeping her voice cold and calm with an effort of will. “He was the Usurper’s spy. Ser Selmy has found proof, and I do not think Jorah can deny it.”

Yennefer’s smile faded slowly. She reached out and touched Daenerys’s forearm, very lightly.

“The coward! I am sorry, my queen. Have you confronted him yet?”

“Not yet. I know what I must do. But I need to be sure, first. I need your guidance.”

Yennefer inclined her head. “Very fair. I cannot promise you too much, but I can tell you if Ser Selmy is telling the truth of what he found, at least.”

Daenerys shook her head. “I would appreciate that. I don’t doubt him – but I would have never thought to doubt Jorah, either…”

Her voice trailed off.

 _And how can I trust you_ , she wondered. Yennefer was so beautiful, so wise, and her magic offered Daenerys so much… she was almost too good to be true.

 _I will not doubt those who have sworn themselves to me_ , she told herself, sternly. _I will keep faith unless I have_ proof _that they have broken it first_.

But still, still… her heart was pounding in fear.

“When we have finished with Ser Selmy and Jorah,” she said softly, looking up to meet Yennefer’s eyes. “I would have the thing you spoke of. A way to reach you, wherever you might be found.”

Yennefer inclined her head in a stately nod, but she was smiling.

If Daenerys woke early enough, in the coolest part of the night just before the sun rose, she would make her way down to the Unsullied barracks near the base of the great pyramid. They had a wide courtyard there, smoothly flagged with pale stone, where they trained every morning – a ritual as set and solemn as morning prayers might be for a priest.

Usually Ser Barristan was there with them, and Daario, and some of the city guard, and even a handful of common folk from the city as well – anyone who sought to improve their fighting skills. The Unsullied did not turn any serious student away.

Daenerys had been learning the sword there since her second month in Meereen. She trusted her Unsullied guards with her life, she trusted Yennefer and she trusted her children – yet nonetheless she was still frightened. The world spun on its axis, and the mighty fell – a wheel always turning. Who knew that better than Daenerys Targaryen?

Anything could happen.

So she sweated and strained with a blunt training sword in her hands, trying to build muscle in her arms and memory in her body. She could dance well, at least the common dances of Pentos and Tyrosh and Braavos, and ride even better – but this dance was different, and she struggled to learn it.

Daenerys was a poor student, truth be told, and she did not spend enough time practicing – could not, with a whole city to rule. But she worked at it nonetheless.

One morning she finished a routine of blocks and blows with Grey Worm for the fifth time and almost dropped her sword, arms shaking with exhaustion. For the fifth time she had not managed to run the pattern through without mistakes.

Grey Worm looked at her, expressionless, barely sweating. The sword was not his favourite weapon, but he still could use it with a fluid grace as if he had been born with it in his hand. He never shamed her in words for her clumsiness, but his skill was its own admonition.

Still, though she was his queen, he respected her enough to treat her like any other student when they were training together - he was never too lenient with her, either.

“Again?”

Daenerys almost said no. She hurt all over… and as tired as she was, it was unlikely she’d finally be able to get the pattern right this time. But her enemies wouldn’t wait until she was well-rested and alert, or pause an attack to let her have a break.

“Again,” she said, and lifted her sword up from where she had leaned its point against the ground to spare her arms.

She didn’t notice Yennefer until the final pass – better, to start with, but she slipped up and blocked left instead of right at the same point, the same mistake she'd now made six times in a row. As soon as she recognised Yennefer’s loose dark hair and vivid eyes across the training ground she felt herself blushing down to her chest.

For Yennefer to see her, like this – a clumsy and awkward student who could not run a simple exercise through without mistakes –

For Yennefer she wanted to be perfect, always.

But Yennefer said nothing in criticism. None of her usual teasing. Only bowed, once Daenerys had caught her eye, and walked away.

Much later, standing bored in the audience room together, Yennefer leaned in to her ear and whispered, “You never give up, do you?”

Daenerys smiled, a tiny motion barely lifting up the corners of her mouth. She felt too warm, again, but this time it was not embarrassment.

Most rooms in the great pyramid were dim and shadowy, shaded pleasantly from the fierce sun outside. Walking onto one of the terraces was always blinding – for the first moments Daenerys could see nothing, blinking against the harshness of the light.

A dark shadow at the corner of her vision might be nothing more than a potted tree, or it might be an Unsullied guardsman – but this time it was Yennefer, standing tall and straight by the balustrades and staring into the deep gulf of air above the city.

Daenerys’s children were playing in that void, scales catching the light.

“They are beautiful, are they not?” Daenerys said quietly.

Yennefer didn’t flinch, exactly, but there was still a hint of surprise as she turned. Inwardly Daenerys smiled; it was rare to be able to startle her sorceress.

“Yes,” Yennefer said at last. There was a hint of longing in her voice.

“They are my children,” Daenerys said quietly. “The only children I will have, after my son died unborn in my womb.”

Yennefer lifted her head to look Daenerys directly in the face, eyes soft and dark. Very carefully, she reached out to lay her hand over Daenerys’s own.

“I will not have even that. Power has a price.” She waited a moment; there was something cold and bitter in her eyes, in the expression on her face. "Everything has a price. But some are too steep to pay."

“I am sorry,” Daenerys said softly; she couldn’t think of any better words. But Yennefer just smiled at her, darkness suddenly lifting as if it had never been.

“So am I.” Then Yennefer’s smile widened, just a little. “There are some consolations.”

Daenerys smiled back at her. Feeling a hot shiver run down her spine.

But then Grey Worm stepped up to the balustrade beside them and the moment broke.

“A scholar from the temple came for you, Yennefer. She did not stay, but she left this.”

In Grey Worm’s hand was a large wooden box, elaborately carved; the kind the Ghiscari used to store old records and unbound books.

Beside them, Yennefer bent her head in a bow of thanks.

“Finally! Thank you, my friend.”

Delicately she took the box from Grey Worm’s hand, stroking one elegant long fingered hand over the lid.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked. The carvings were elaborate, but even after a trip halfway across the city there was old dust visible in the deep grooves and crannies.

“An old copy of an old, old history. The man who wrote it, three thousand years ago, claimed that he based it on the writings of the general who led Old Ghis in its last war against Valyria. I suppose I’ll find out if it's true.”

Daenerys’s eyes widened. “It must be truly ancient! But why would you be interested? Old Ghis is long dead; these cities are only a shadow of what was, and by all accounts they are changed beyond all recognition. I do not think anything so old could help us.”

Yennefer's smile was like a knife.

“The legions of Old Ghis were defeated by the dragonriders – but it took five wars and many battles before the harpy bent. Wouldn’t it be useful to learn how they lasted so long? The Old Valyrians had hundreds of dragons, and could afford to lose even dozens in battle so long as they won their wars in the end. You have three, and none to spare.”

A cold hand gripped Daenerys’s heart. That _would not_ happen. It must not.

Yennefer caught the expression on her face; a tiny frown marred her agelessly youthful skin.

"Do not be afraid, my queen. You still have time, I think. Remember that your enemies will also have to learn."

But Daenerys turned away from the sorceress, trying to master the fear that still gripped her.

"I will not take that for granted. I will not risk my children!"

Yennefer bowed her head. For a long moment, there was silence - only the dragons calling as they played, far above.

"Have you considered riders yet, for the other two? I know Drogon is yours, but Viserion and Rhaegal will need riders, too. All the histories I have read say that there is nothing more dangerous than a ridden dragon, human intelligence matched with their strength and fire. But unridden they will be vulnerable."

Daenerys's heart sank further. She had accepted Yennefer's service so that she might hear the truth. But this one she did not want to even think about.

"You know that I am the last. The last Targaryen, the last of the blood of the dragon. There are none who can ride a dragon beside me. I will have to train Rhaegal and Viserion to follow me and Drogon as best I might."

Yennefer's frown deepened.

"I don't think that's true."

Daenerys spun to face her. "All my kin are dead! Do you claim to know better than my father's loyal kingsguard, who saw them all die?"

"I did not mean that - I am sorry to mislead you," Yennefer said, shaking her head. "I meant only that Valyria ruled this land for centuries, from all I have been told. Their blood is strongest in Lys and Volantis, it is said - but it is here, too. The dragonlords might have died, but I'll bet their seed survived in their servants and slaves. There's likely thousands in Meereen with a little of that blood - and hundreds, at least, who were fathered by a Volantene or Lyseni master and sold here in Meereen as slaves. More than enough to find two riders you could trust."

Daenerys's heart was pounding. _No, no, I will not share! They are mine!_ But she said nothing. Did not let that greedy voice speak.

Yennefer's voice softened. "If I were you, I'd look first among the Unsullied - and maybe the women. Your people here are loyal, but a dragon's power will be a temptation. But I think I can help you find riders you can trust."

Finally Daenerys found her voice again. "I will need to think on this."

She turned away, a hard lump in her throat. _They are mine!_

But she knew she could not listen to that voice forever. 

She hesitated a moment - and looked back one last time at Yennefer. “Thank you. For all that you do for me. Even if I do not always agree, I do value your counsel, more than my words can say.”

Yennefer merely smiled, secret and sly.

“Yennefer,” Daenerys said, voice steady and calm though inside she was trembling. Another death… she could not bear this, she could not, but she knew she must. “Tell me what I must do. Tell me how I can bring peace to this city. To everyone within this city.”

Her dragonriders were not yet trained. _She_ was not yet trained, nor Drogon. And her Unsullied, it seemed, could not keep the peace alone.

Yennefer just looked at her, eyes bright and cold. “My queen,” she said, in that lovely lilting voice of hers that still spoke of lands Daenerys would never see. “Don’t you already know? You can’t.”

“No. I cannot accept that, not for my people.” Daenerys’s voice was flat. How could she say that? Didn’t she know that even when things seemed to be at their most hopeless, for Daenerys there was always another way? She _owed_ the people of Meereen a true peace at last.

“You have to choose. You can bring peace – there are many paths to peace – but not for _everyone_. Choose who you want to give it to.”

Daenerys shook her head back and forth in another silent no, but Yennefer kept speaking.

“What do your people want?”

“They want peace, all but the few criminals who you _will_ help me find. As do I!”

“But what is peace?” Yennefer asked, eyebrows lifted. “Peace for a Great Master in his pyramid is not the same thing as peace to the man in the streets below who used to be his slave. Most of the Great Masters won’t think they have peace until every slave is chained again and they are freed from the burden of feeding themselves, and from wiping their own shit at the other end. Will you give them that?”

Daenerys looked up to Yennefer’s eyes. “You know I won’t. There _has_ to be a way to make them see…”

“There isn’t.” That soft voice was not Yennefer – Daenerys turned to find Missandei speaking, her expression regretful, eyes cast down. “Forgive me for interrupting, my queen. But Yennefer is right. We who were slaves here know. There are a few Great Masters who are willing to accept the change you bring, but those have mostly already shown themselves to you. They’ve bent their heads and accepted their former slaves as brothers and sisters. The rest… the rest will not change. They cannot stand to. To change they must accept that all their lives and all their ancestors’ lives are sunk in cruelty to the bone, and that is too much for them to bear.”

Daenerys bit her lip hard on the words she wanted to say. Missandei’s advice was rare and quiet, but always wise.

“Then what can I do? Would you have me do nothing? I could not bear that – just to wait, and see more deaths!”

Yennefer stepped forward, resting her hand on Daenerys’s arm. “You can’t force them to choose your peace, but you can take away their power to hurt. There are too many starving freedmen in this city. Too many former masters sitting on gold they didn’t earn. Change that – strengthen the ones who love you and weaken the ones who hate you – and then you might see your peace.”

“They’ll hate me for it,” Daenerys warned. It wasn’t just that Yennefer’s advice made sense – it was that she _wanted_ to do it. Wanted to punish those whose cruelty had built on cruelty until this city screamed with it.

She’d punished in Astapor, though. And Yunkai. She feared where that road led.

“They already hate you,” Grey Worm said, quietly and unexpectedly. “They will always hate you. Maybe this way the ones who hate you most will just leave.”

“It could be justice,” Missandei said. “It doesn’t have to mean just taking. There are records all over the city, still, from slave auctions and sales – it could be a tax, on the profits of slavery, to be given to those who were once slaves themsleves. You could find scribes to help you search the records, to make sure you take from each family in proportion to what they earned from their slaves. Most will still hate you for it, but some of them will call you fair all the same.”

Missandei’s eyes were bright with the thought of it, of justice. The shining dream that had seen her follow Daenerys all the way from Astapor. The world she dreamed of was the fairest and kindest Daenerys could ever imagine.

“Will it be enough?” Daenerys asked, slowly.

Yennefer’s smile was cruel. “It will be a start.”

Daenerys lifted her chin. Her throne, her choice. Her burden.

“Then let it be done.”

There were few true gardens in Meereen, and most of those were scraps of waste land away from the shadow of the pyramids where vegetables and herbs could be grown in the sun. But many of the great pyramids were heavily planted in their lower terraces, with flowers and lush trees grown for their beauty more than their use. A luxury for the wealthy who could afford slaves to carry water up to the terraces – or for a conqueror Queen, who had loyal soldiers for whom marching burdened up and down heavy steps was training not a punishment.

Most days Daenerys spent a large part of the afternoon training with her children and her dragonriders, if it was not a day to open her court to petitioners. But after the sun set and the dragons slept, Daenerys liked to leave them and sit in the terraces of the great pyramid. There were breezes there, and without the harsh heat of the sun the air was warm and pleasant, mild and soft like a blanket against her skin.

Sometimes Missandei would meet her there, and they would eat bread and fruit while squatting on the ground in the courtyard, or leaning against stone walls still warm from the sun. Queen and herald fell away, and it was as if they were girls again, in a kinder childhood than either of them had known.

Or sometimes she would sit with Ser Barristan, listening to his stories of Westeros – tales of sleepy Marcher villages as fascinating to her as tourneys and castles and knights. Yennefer often joined her, on those evenings – _learning_ , she said, _I am always learning_ – but it was Daenerys whose face she watched. Not Ser Barristan’s.

It was late, one night, when Ser Barristan finished telling an old story from his grandfather’s day of raid and counter-raid between the Marcher lords of Blackhaven and Wyl. The tale ended hopefully enough, with a wedding and an oath of truce, but it left Daenerys feeling uneasy all the same. How many Westerosi happy endings finished with a woman sold to enemies or strangers for the sake of a father or a brother’s ambition?

Daenerys had been sold for war, not peace; but the story jarred her, all the same. There had been another Daenerys, once, and they sold her too – had she ever been happy, like Daenerys had once been happy? Had she lost as much as Daenerys had lost?

If she had ever walked into the fire, she never walked out again. That much Daenerys knew.

It was full dark, by then, a moonless night. The only light on the terrace was a pair of deep oil lamps, cheap clay formed into crude harpies – winged women, coarsely naked. You could buy lamps just like them by the hundred in the streets below. Moodily Daenerys stared into the little flames.

“I had best be on my way, my queen,” Ser Barristan said, after a silence Daenerys knew had stretched too long. “I have my duties.”

Daenerys recalled herself enough to smile at him.

“Thank you for the story, Ser Barristan. It is so good to hear anything of Westeros, you know I value your stories more than I can say.”

He smiled back at her, kindly – Ser Barristan was always kind – and bowed in the western fashion that was still strange to Daenerys’s eyes even after all these years, before he left to speak to the Unsullied night guard at the base of the pyramid.

But Yennefer stayed.

“You didn’t like that story,” Yennefer observed, her smile almost mocking. “Poor Ser Barristan tries so hard for you.”

“He knows how I value him,” Daenerys said, calmly. “Did _you_ enjoy that story?”

Yennefer just looked at her, eyes wide and dark in the darkness. “Not particularly,” she said at last, softly. “Too many sad women.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “The stories are always full of them. And men never seem to notice.”

“No. Nor the smallfolk,” Yennefer said. “Crops trampled, cattle stolen, sons conscripted, daughters raped… what do they care about some lord’s honour? All they want is peace.”

There was something in Yennefer’s tone that needled Daenerys, a hint of sharpness.

“They need a strong ruler for that, a strong king,” Daenerys answered her, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. “Someone to keep the local lords in check and see that justice is offered to all.”

“Mmm,” Yennefer said, tilting her head back to stare at the midnight sky. “Or give them no kings, no lords at all.”

“It’s too late for that in Westeros,” Daenerys said. “Or would you have me burn every lord in the Seven Kingdoms, drive their kin away like I did the masters? What of all their armies and soldiers? Must I burn them too?”

“I suppose not,” Yennefer said, too lightly. She turned to face Daenerys; even in the dim lamp glow her eyes caught the light like violets. You could drown in eyes like hers.

Daenerys met her gaze and held it. But Yennefer’s stare went on too long – uncomfortably long.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked at last, irritated to have broken first but unable to help herself. The look on Yennefer’s face…

Yennefer reached out suddenly with a gentle hand.

“You have something in your hair,” she said, very quietly.

When she pulled her hand back there was something moving on it – a pale moth, frantically beating enormous wings in a cloud of its own dust. Yennefer stared at it a moment, then shook her hand to encourage it to fly away. 

“Moths like fire,” Yennefer said, very quietly. “No wonder it came to you. You’re brighter than any lamp.”

She was smiling. And she had not pulled away.

Daenerys realised that her face was tilted up towards Yennefer, her lips faintly parted. Then Yennefer’s hand came back to her again, tracing a fine line around the curve of her cheek. It touched her lips…

“Are you a moth?” Daenerys asked tartly, trying to control the pounding of her heart.

Yennefer smiled, but did not answer. Only leaned in closer for the kiss.

Yennefer came to her rooms much later that night. Dressed for once in a light Meereenese gown, so airy and thin Daenerys could see her skin beneath it.

“My queen,” Yennefer said at the doorway to her rooms, smile small and secret. Her tone was almost mocking, but not quite.

“Am I?” Daenerys asked her, almost serious. “Am I only that?”

“Is that what you want to be?”

Daenerys smiled up at Yennefer, warm and languid. “No.”

Yennefer was smiling too as she leaned down to kiss her. Her lips were soft, but her kiss wasn’t: hot and fierce right from the beginning. Daenerys buried her hands in the silky softness of Yennefer’s hair and tugged her closer, feeling Yennefer moan against her lips.

Yennefer’s hands felt hot as they closed around Daenerys’s waist, scorching through the thin fabric of Daenerys’s gown – but she was not burned. She leaned back into it, shivering as she felt Yennefer caress her.

“I never dreamed of you,” Yennefer said softly, face turned away into Daenerys’s braids. “I never thought I would bend my head and serve again. And to lie with the one I serve – what a cliché! How boring! But then I met you. And you – you are a wonder. You are incredible.”

Daenerys felt light and airy as a flame. Heat rose within her, as she pulled Yennefer against her for another searing kiss.

“So are you,” she whispered, against Yennefer’s lips. “I never dared dream of you. But here you are, all the same.”

“Here I am,” Yennefer said. Her hands gripped, pulled Daenerys more firmly against her.

“Will you come to my room with me? Will you lie with me?” Daenerys said the words very low, brushing her lips against Yennefer’s neck as she spoke to feel the shiver.

Then Yennefer pulled her close again for another insistent kiss.

“Yes,” she said, after a long pause. “As if you didn’t already know.”

Daenerys smiled.

Naked, Yennefer was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. She was perfect, everything about her sleek and smooth and well-proportioned. Except for the scars on her wrists.

“There was a spell,” Yennefer said slowly, at last. “A long time ago. I traded something precious for a flawless body, a perfect face, and the cost was higher than I knew.”

Daenerys’s mouth twisted. “But men do not like to look at women unless we are beautiful, do they? They do not like to listen to us.”

Yennefer laughed, a harsh sound. “Fortunately, we are not men.”

She took Daenerys’s hands and drew her close again. “And you…”

“My family has practiced incest for centuries, marrying brother to sister to keep our bloodline pure. I am lucky I do not have twelve fingers and two heads!”

Yennefer snorted. “Some men have been known to have two.” One hand traced a line over Daenerys’s bare thigh and then slid upward, inward. Daenerys let out a small soft noise.

“Only one head,” Yennefer said, smiling slyly.

“Fortunately, we are not men.” Daenerys kissed her again, impatient now with games. “Come,” she said, in her best imperious tone. “Lie down with me.”

Daenerys tugged her backwards and Yennefer followed her willingly, but her kisses were distracting. Daenerys was laughing as she tumbled backwards into bed, pulling Yennefer after her.

She ended up on her back with Yennefer straddling her waist, those long sleek legs pinning her down in the sweetest prison.

“I’ve caught myself a queen,” Yennefer said, looking down at her hungrily.

Daenerys stretched slowly, enjoying Yennefer’s stare. “And what will you do with me? Now that you have me?”

Yennefer said nothing, but her smile was wicked. She leaned down – now that hot mouth was on Daenerys’s breasts, trailing lines of kisses over them, circling Daenerys’s nipple with a teasing tongue while her long fingers stroked a path up Daenerys’s waist to play with the other one.

Daenerys bore it as long as she could, until she was trembling, until she couldn’t stop little hoarse noises from escaping her lips or her hips working against Yennefer’s weight above her.

“Yen – Yennefer – ”

Yennefer lifted her head to smile at Daenerys again, dark and knowing, before she lowered it again. Moving downwards slowly, teasingly – kisses on Daenerys’s belly, on the crease of her thighs –

Daenerys wouldn’t beg. But her hands came down to bury themselves in Yennefer’s hair and urge her onward, all the same. Yennefer turned her head to kiss Daenerys’s fingertips and suddenly Daenerys was almost trembling with the sweetness of it – but then Yennefer met her eyes again, violet and fierce.

“May I?” she whispered, so close to the part of Daenerys’s thighs that she shook with the caress of her breath.

“Please,” Daenerys said, finally. “Please!”

Yennefer was still smiling as she parted her lips to lick.

She was good at this – too good at this – Daenerys was shaking and crying aloud within moments. It was if the sorceress had some other sense that told her exactly when and where to lick, when to pull away to tease and when to reward with firm pressure. Perhaps she did. Then Yennefer’s fingers slid inside her, too – two fingers, and then three, and Daenerys was clenching around them helplessly –

She had no idea what she shouted as she came, but when she came back to herself Yennefer was still smiling smugly at her, chin resting on Daenerys’s hipbone.

Daenerys’s chest was heaving. She _wanted_ –

“Your turn,” Daenerys said, tugging Yennefer up towards her. Then flipped them over.

Yennefer didn’t seem to have expected Daenerys’s strength, and for a moment she just stared up at Daenerys, eyes wide and lips parted. Then when Daenerys kissed her she surged up against her, as hot and eager as Daenerys herself had been, moments ago.

Yennefer was clinging to her now, kissing her fiercely – Daenerys loved that she could taste herself in her mouth – and seemed so urgent that Daenerys couldn’t help but slide a hand between her thighs to touch her where she was hottest, soft and silky-wet.

She stroked gently at first, exploring, but Yennefer was too eager and ground against her urgently.

“Dany – please – ”

Daenerys felt fierce and powerful. She kept moving her fingers in a steady rhythm, letting Yennefer’s own motions guide her. Yennefer was so wet – dripping with it – the smell of them both soaking into the sheets and the room –

Then Yennefer shuddered and cried out, and collapsed back down in Daenerys’s arms.

Daenerys lay down with her, pulling her close, tucking her head into the space between Yennefer’s neck and shoulder. Despite the Meereenese warmth it was too good to lie like this, skin against warm skin. She could feel Yennefer’s heart beating against her own.

Finally she felt Yennefer stirring. Stroking her hair.

“You’re stuck with me now,” Yennefer murmured to her; even with closed eyes, you could hear in her voice that she was smiling. 

Against her skin, Daenerys whispered, "Good."

It was more than mere happiness. It was a warmth like fire licking over her skin.

With her eyes still closed, for a moment Daenerys saw the future stretching out beyond them like a road: Yennefer and her dragonriders at her side and armies at her back, and then a fleet of ships to sail them west. With her sorceress all things would be possible. Weakened and ruined by war, none of the petty kings of Westeros could stand against them; and with Yennefer's voice to whisper in her ear of all the smallfolk longed for, she could make herself into a ruler they could love. They _would_ love her...

She saw herself walking through the King's Landing streets she'd never seen, barefoot and dressed in white like one of her pious ancestors. The people would see her humble and loving. Seeking only peace, though her might was greater than that of any little king they'd known before. _The gods blessed me with dragons so I might end the kingdom's sufferings and bring you peace. As I brought freedom to the east_. That work was not yet finished - but with Yennefer and three dragons beside her it would not be long before they crushed the armies of Volantis, and reconquered Astapor and Yunkai. 

And then the throne of her ancestors... she would feel its blades beneath her, sharpness and pressure through her thin white dress, but she would not bleed.

_I will bring them peace. I will end the wars. None will dare defy my justice. The gods have decreed it so._

She need not tell the Westerosi which god had blessed her and made her his own. 

Then the dream faded back to the warmth of the woman in her bed - for now.

Daenerys stretched herself and smiled, much wider. Yennefer was _hers_ and all things were possible. All that they dreamed would soon be true.


End file.
